


Cock Tale

by Tav



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bars, Break Up, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexy Bartender, Strangers to Lovers, Valentine's Day, Workplace Relationship, motel sex, v-day smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 07:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17783258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tav/pseuds/Tav
Summary: The Long Overdue Sequel to Let's Get It On!Valentine's Day. It's supposed to be the best damn day ever for Steve. So how did he manage to lose his job and his boyfriend all before noon.  Drowning his sorrows seems to be the best way to end such a horrible day...but then Steve meets a bartender. Will Still give in and enjoy a Cock Tale?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear Lord i hate my summaries. 
> 
> Anyway hey guys, a little Valentines gift for you lovelies. Hope you enjoy. Sorry about the uneditnessessess!.  
> Also, I really don't know if this can stand alone. I think its necessary to read Let's Get It On... I don't know, let me know.

Steve had thought that the only thing worse than the _cardboard box of unemployment_ would be the inevitable final walk of shame that comes with it. But both pale in comparison to finding his replacement in his seat before the leather even had time to get cold.

 

“So,” Bucky hangs over the partition like he has every single day since Steve and he became cubical neighbours fresh out of college, “since Stark so economically replaced you with another Steven, I guess that means we won’t have to change the name on the locker at the corporate gym.”

 

“Actually,” the new employee speaks for the first time, voice already dripping with as much pomposity as his overly long face, high cheekbones and prudently constructed posture, “mine is spelt with a p-h.”

 

“Phteven?” Bucky cocks a brow. And were it not for the situation, Steve would’ve burst out laughing at the clear unimpressed expression on his replacement’s face. “Now I get why everyone’s calling you _Strange_.”

 

Steve barely hears Stephen try his best to correct Bucky’s deliberate error, not when his eyes are suddenly locked with the man’s behind his termination. _Tony Fucking Stark_ behind the safety of his shatterproof glass walls. Observing between barely parted blinds. Just enough to oversee flaws while overlooking hard work. Steve had been in that very office just that morning, the reasoning behind Stark firing him weighing down just as heavily as the rejected engagement ring in his front pocket.

 

He doesn’t stay long enough to be told to leave twice. Instead, Steve makes his unceremonious escape to the elevator ignoring all the knowing looks from his former colleagues who are wise enough not to sympathize over fear of suffering a similar fate. He’s just about to make a somewhat respectable clean getaway when a familiar hand prevents the elevator doors from shutting and he’s joined by his best friend in the cab.

 

“What? I mean so little to you that you’re just gonna leave without saying goodbye,” Bucky frowns and Steve frowns harder because Bucky is rummaging through his box as he says it. The short time in which it takes his best friend to relieve him of his cactus, stapler and _World’s Best Marketer_ mug makes Steven certain it had been long since thought-out.  

 

“I’m not in the mood to cook tonight,” Steve says on an exhale, bypassing the needless task of reminding Bucky that they share an apartment. That banter lost its novelty ages ago. “Why don’t we go all out and splurge on some _Carl’s Jr_ then _Taco Bell_ and finish off the night with Pizaa Hu-”.

 

“Jesus Christ, Stevo,” Bucky interrupts, “death-by-heart disease is completely illogical considering how you got fired from the job you’ve only been planning on quitting since Tony took over. And so what, Stark and you are over. If you ask me he was a closeted, absent dick of a boyfriend anyway. Not to mention he was definitely violating all sorts of workplace moral codes, even if he is a Stark.”  

 

“I proposed to him.”

 

Bucky freezes as the elevator comes to a fitting halt and his mouth parts like the doors. Although Steve is well aware of his friend’s stunned gaze fixed on him the entire time, he’s grateful that the new loud company will be joining them for the rest of the ride down to the foyer. But his crowded peace is fleeting and the moment they exit, the second the tirade of accusations - more so than questioning - begins.

 

“ _It’s just sex_ ,” Bucky’s at least mindful enough to lower his voice when his outburst earns the two of them some disapproving looks from passers-by. “Whatever happened to the past year of you convincing me not to worry because _it’s just sex_?”

 

“Well, Bucky, I lied,” Steve balances his cargo onehandedly as he glides the little piece of plastic through the employee login and swipe card system for the last time. Within seconds it will be deactivated and Steve will no longer be permitted into the Stark’s Industries building at will. A year ago this would’ve been the happiest moment of Steve’s life. Far too much has changed in a year. “This is hardly the first time a man has lied about his true feelings in order to keep his emotions guarded.”

 

“You proposed to Mr-your-boss-Stark-,” Bucky sounds as if he’s learning the joys of speech for the first time. And then he’s eyes go worryingly wide as he practically squeaks out, “-on Valentine’s Day?”

 

“Well, Tony absolutely hates clichéd grand gestures,” Steve begins monotonically, “and since proposing on Valentine’s Day is the type of clichéd grand gesture he always says he hates more than anything in the world, I figured he wouldn’t be expecting it therefore rendering it a spontaneous act of love-”

 

“Stop,” Bucky looks as though he’s about to go squint. “That is just way too complicated and fucked up.”

 

“Everything about our relationship was complicated and fucked up,” Steve’s sigh is already laced with nostalgia, “that’s what made it so-”

 

“Don’t you dare say perfect,” Bucky scolds like a mother at wits end.

 

“So right,” Steve ignores his friend’s guess and concludes his true thoughts himself.  

 

“But you _proposed_ to Tony Stark.”

 

“You don’t have to keep reminding me,” Steve is grateful when they’ve finally exited the building. “I’m the one who got rejected and fired, remember.”

 

It might be the sudden rush of fresh air or the loud bustle of busy streets and busier sidewalks, but as Steve scans the bumper to bumper stream of vehicles for something yellow and black, it’s almost as if Bucky only just realizes that his best friend has lost his job. And lost his boyfriend.  Steve looks down just in time to see the most sincere apology mask Bucky’s face without him even having to utter a word. Sometimes Steve prefers the narcissistic, light-hearted Bucky instead of this. This sad Bucky validates Steve’s own sorrow and reminds him that the pain he’s feeling is real.

 

“I’ll be alright,” Steve forces a smile, because Bucky looks as though he’s actually going to hug him. But as Steve takes the long taxi drive home, he wonders who he was really trying to convince. As he sinks into his bed for a much needed nap, he’s certain he’d been lying to Bucky and himself altogether.

 

Steve is not going to be alright at all.

 

The past year with Tony Stark had been anything but ordinary. Nothing short of pleasurable. Exponentially enthralling. And it wasn’t just the sex even though their unsubstantial chemistry in bed was so complex that he’d often thought it should be studied and written about in semantics only the most eccentric of minds would understand.

 

It was the _being with Tony Stark_ part of it all that has Steve certain he won’t be alright going without it.

 

While many see him as the spoiled, womanizing capitalist he forges and writes himself to be for the media and industry, being with Tony was like unwrapping the exact same parcel daily yet finding a different gift inside each time. Steve knows all of Tony’s daytime quirks and nightly qualms. He knows what gets a smirk and what’s rewarded with a smile. Even the type of smile one should flee from entirely because nothing good can come from it regardless of how many wrinkles etch the corners of his beautiful eyes.

 

Being with Tony has shown Steve his generous side too. The side that offers time instead of money, assistance instead of cheques. Steve will never forget how ridiculously rich Tony looked in a stained apron and hairnet as he got hands-on in one of his many side-projects. The types that are so selfless that nobody knows about them simply due to the fact that the tabloids deem them too boring to print.

 

But what Steve will miss most of all about being with Tony Stark is the way Tony made Steve feel worth being with. Like they were in some sort of collective reverie that started with Tony’s intake yet didn’t end on Steve’s exhale. Like the mere touch of Tony’s fingertips against his temple could erase every bad memory and trace in new beautiful imageries filled with hope and happiness. It could only be that fake thing stupid people liked to label as love and Steve had hoped they’d share that idiocy forever.

 

But this _was_ ‘Tony Stark’ Steve was talking about; how had he allowed himself to get so deluded. How the hell could Steve have been so wrong?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

** Earlier That Same Morning **

****

“Jarvis!”

 

It’s heard from the kitchen, long before Tony even storms down the wide staircase or crosses the entrance hall. It’s angry and determined and intimidating. And Steve can’t help but smile.

 

“Jarvis,” it’s louder this time leaving Steve to wonder just how many steps Tony took at a time. Or whether or not he truly needs his caffeine fix first thing in the morning as desperately as he says he does. Either way, Steve thinks it’s adorable.

 

“Where’s my-”

 

“Nitro Cold Brew,” Steve holds the glass up to a very startled and horribly sexy-looking Tony. Tony always looks most edible when his hair is still a mess and his robe is barely tied and he’s so thrown off routine that he looks as though he might fumble an equation that a first grader can answer in their sleep.

 

“Where’s Jarvis?” Tony asks, even though he takes the proffered glass. Steve isn’t even offended by the way Tony’s eyes narrow as he sniffs the beverage. He knows it’s perfect. Jarvis privately taught him the technique countless times that week until it was so flawless that Jarvis couldn’t even tell them apart.

 

“And,” Steve spins round and gestures to the kitchen island like the pretty lady in a tight red dress pointing to the car on an old gameshow, “for the piece de resistance, blueberry buttermilk pancakes.”

 

“What have you done with Jarvis and why are you here,” Tony’s frowning, even as he accepts and fleetingly returns the _good morning kiss_ between questions.

 

“I gave him the morning off,” Steve says triumphantly as he urges a very sceptical looking Tony towards his breakfast with his hands on the shorter man’s hips.

 

“You gave my butler orders without my permission,” Tony states more than asks.

 

“It’s a special morning,” Steve shrugs innocently, “I needed us to be alone for this.”

 

“Oh good god,” Tony is placing the coffee aside and already turning to push Steve away as if only just remembering what day it really is, “how many times have I told you how I feel about –”

 

“I know, I know,” Steven interrupts quickly as if trying to spare Tony the sheer misery of having to say the V word.  Both of his hands are gripping the kitchen island with white knuckles, boxing Tony in so that he can get what he so desperately needs to out. “I know you, Tony. And relax, there’re no roses or chocolates stupid big teddy bears. All I have is a question. And I would’ve done this differently and more beautifully but you crave simplicity. And this is about as simple as things can get.”

 

And then with a shaky hand, Steve reaches into his pocket and holds the little velvet box up in front of the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

 

The man who _should_ say yes.

 

As Tony leaves the kitchen, Steve is left to wonder why he didn’t.

 

*****

** Back to the Present  **

 

It’s called _BARton’s_.

 

Steve’s never heard of it before and he isn’t quite sure if the place has always been there. But after Bucky had woken him up from his self-pitying slumber with a string of angry text messages; an unemployed, loveless night of irresponsible drinking with his best friend quickly sounded worlds better than moping himself to death on a Friday night. It didn’t take long for Steve to decide to hop in and out of the shower and grab a cab to the GPS coordinates Bucky had sent him along with the many threats of bodily harm he’d inflict on Steve if Steve left him ‘hanging’.  

 

It’s on the outskirts of town preceding a highway to the next. From the looks of it, Steve can picture the front of the place lined with parked Harley’s on a busy night, but he’s thoroughly grateful that this is not one of those times. In fact, were it not for the lights turned on in the motel rooms above and the handful of stationery vehicles scattered in the lot, Steve guesses that the only things keeping business up and running are the tiny Stop n Go gas station and the ATM machines; small stop necessities for out of towners passing through.  

 

Despite the countless messages, Bucky isn’t anywhere in sight when Steve finally enters the pub. But it’s far from surprising since Bucky was voted most likely to be late for his own funeral in their high school yearbook. And even with the amateur, gothic rock band belting out something depressingly incoherent on stage, Steve feels oddly in place surrounded by all the other dejected-looking, half-drunk patrons occupying the booths and stools and pool tables.   

 

Even after his awkward assessment of the vicinity from the safety of the door that gains him a few odd looks, Steve still isn’t quite sure what the theme of _BARton’s_ is supposed to be. Given the Wild West woodiness meshed with modern day furnishing and displaced grunge décor, Steve guesses the owner is having a hard time figuring it out too. But the place does have an abundance of the one thing he came there for. So deciding against letting his friend’s tardiness stand in the way of him wrecking his own sobriety, Steve heads straight for the bar and plants himself on the first bar stool that doesn’t look as though it might end up giving him Gonorrhoea.   

 

Despite Steve’s best effort to look friendly and thirsty and incapable of pouring his own drink, the man behind the bar is unmoving. He isn’t at all a tall man, but the muscles bursting at the seams and chest of his black short sleeved top make him look as though he’d be able to hold his own in a fight against another man twice his size. His arms crossed over his chest don’t only pronounce his muscle further and show off his very intricate tattoo of a hawk, but it also makes him appear standoffish and every bit as though he’s absolutely not intending on catering to a single one of Steve’s requests. Yet somehow, Steve still manages to find his polite voice. Even though the scrunched up look of animosity he’s receiving couldn’t even be done better by a pro wrestler on steroids and cocaine.   

 

“Hey,” Steve nods his greeting, wondering for the life of him why he’s bothered making his voice deeper, “you didn’t happen to see a scruffy faced looking guy come in here? About, five-ten? Long, dark hair? Most likely wearing all black?”

 

When all that the man does is - so very helpfully - point Steve in the general direction of the pub with the tiniest tilt of his head, Steve feels stupid once noticing that half the patrons fit his description. Including the band.   

 

“Maybe it would help if I gave you his shoe size?” Steve chuckles, then immediately feels like a middle-aged dad trying to be hip around his children’s friends when the other man remains completely unaffected and statue still.  He decides to cloak his embarrassment by busying them both. “Can you get me a Long Island Ice Tea.”

 

“Nope,” is all the response Steve gets. And he would’ve made some silly joke by feigning shock over the fact that the other man can actually speak had his request not so rudely just been shut down.

 

“Well, as it’s been decades since anyone has asked to see my ID-” Steve is uncharacteristically snarky. Because he’s jobless and he’s been dumped by the man he thought he loved and now he’s about to be stood up by his best friend as well. “- I’d like one damn good reason why you won’t ge-”

 

“Because I’ve only just taken over the family business less than a week and all that you said there is just gibberish to me,” he says nonchalantly with the smallest of shrugs. “Now, if you want a beer, I can get you a beer. But if you want that fancy nonsense I’ll get you the bartender.”

 

“Oh,” Steve huffs out on a short chuckle. “Oh I’m sorry, I had no ide-”

 

“Billy,” the man calls out to some door leading to the back, the kitchen Steve presumes. “Billy Bob, will you come out here and fix this young man his girly drink. I’ll take over inventory.”

 

And Steve is torn between thanking the guy and lecturing him on proper customer service etiquette, but the new owner is already disappearing behind a pair of retro swinging doors. But when the doors swing open once again, all debates between gratitude and orations are knocked out of him as hard as the wind from his lungs when he locks eyes with the dark figure that emerges.       

 

He too is dressed in all black and also has tattoos. But the sleeves that the tank top lacks offers a full view of all the intricate ink stokes sliding and swirling down each ripple of muscle from shoulders to wrists, veins jutting out on his forearms. And he’s wearing biker jeans; the vintage-looking, distressed denim is faded in all the right places and ripped without seeming ruined. Even the boots don’t make him appear as though he’s overcompensating for anything, but perhaps it’s because Steve personally knows this guy doesn’t have to.

 

When Steve looks back up into Tony Stark’s uncharacteristically black-lined eyes, he’s sorely disappointed with himself by how insanely and instantly turned on he is.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *hides away from Stark fans**


End file.
